


Letter To 335

by Halequinne



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halequinne/pseuds/Halequinne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard realises he's just become pen-pals with a death row inmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letter To 335

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Letters To 015694](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7565) by Popheart & xx_Anarchy_xx. 



> Now with podfic by sabakunog4evr, [here](http://sabakunog4evr.livejournal.com/23034.html)

Gerard is pretending to draw. He's looking at the half-coloured page with half a cow's face staring back at him and pretending to draw the rest of it. It's not like there is anyone watching him, but he still feels guilty if he blows off the drawing board completely even if he's not getting anything done.

To be honest with himself, he's still cursing himself for sending that damn letter the week before. It was an idiot move, really. _A serial killer, Gerard?_ he thinks sourly. _Really?_ But there's nothing he can do about it now. He'd scribbled the entire letter late at night when he saw the note from _F_ and sent it before he could talk himself out of it. He's pretty sure he told this F all about him being single and lonely. As though that wasn't a sure fire way to have the man ignore him entirely or... _Oh God_ , he'd given a _serial killer_ his _address_ and _full name_. Gerard is an idiot. If he gets a letter back, he's sure it will be threatening and probably contain the word _faggot_ – he may be an idiot, but he's seen enough procedural cop shows to know the general consensus in prison about gay men is neither pleasant nor open minded. And he may have not written it outright, but he might as well have. The more he thinks about the letter he wrote, the more it starts to sound like a bad response to a personal classifieds ad.

His head hits the drawing board with a thud that resonates in his brain.

On the plus side, he reasons with himself, he did manage a decent amount of polite but interesting talk about books and what he finds captivating about his favourites. Maybe F will focus on that.

It's just when Gerard is resigning himself to the fact that he may wake up in the middle of the night some time in the near or far future with a huge man standing over him, wielding a knife or gun or God knows what else, ready to end Gerard's small and meaningless life, that he hears the mail flap on his door squeak as it is pushed open. He waits for the clacking of the metal swinging come to a rest at a closed position before he even considers getting up. Running through a mental checklist, he is pretty sure all his bills for the month have arrived, he hasn't subscribed to anything for a long time, he only ordered the new pens yesterday and there's no way they could be delivered already.

Eyes squinting and movements slow, he pushes away from the drawing board and gets to his feet, tentatively moving to the front door. He peers around the corner towards the dark wooden portal and squints harder, staring down the small white fold of paper laying on the floor as though it will grow arms, legs, teeth, anything, and chase after him, ripping him to shreds in revenge for all the paper he has discarded in the course of his career... It lies there, quiet and alone, not even a breeze exhaling under the door to give it the illusion of personification. Gerard glares for a moment longer, then steps forward like he's edging to the precipice of a cliff. His fingers stretch towards the envelope, then curl back in to make a fist until he sighs heavily and snatches the benign object from the floor.

When he has pried the envelope's flap open, he notices the strain on his facial muscles from pulling strange, hesitant and bewildered expressions.

The letter is from Florida State Prison; from F. He blinks at it for a long minute before his eyes race over the words more times than he can count. It's poetry, fascinating, non-judgmental and without a single threat. He reads it again, slower this time. And then again. The imagery in F's – _Frank's_ words is beautiful. Gerard wonders how someone with a mind so delightful and elegant as this could be a convicted criminal. It makes him smile; it makes him _think_.

He hurries to the corner of the room where his small computer lives, places the letter reverently on the table next to him, and opens Google.

*

Hours later Gerard is in tears, still staring at the screen. It took some digging as the powers that be made a rather thorough job of wiping the internet of Frank's so-called crimes, but he's dug far enough into the underground art and idealism realms that he has found out everything anyone other than Frank and his subjects have ever known. It's beautiful. It's the most beautiful thing Gerard has ever seen; in it's truth and bravery, it is exquisite.

He reads Frank's letter once more, pulling out a pen and paper and setting straight to replying as soon as his eyes pass over the _– F_ at the bottom of the page. He writes furiously, but reining in all the rambling he has in his brain, dying to spill onto the page. If Frank keeps writing back, there will be time for that; at the moment, Gerard just doesn't want to make any more of a fool of himself to this man who makes his mind race and his emotions swell in his chest in equal amounts of hope and fear. He signs the bottom of the page and seals it in a slightly battered envelope.

It takes a few deep breaths before he leaves his house, but less than it usually takes. He locks the door and checks it twice before he takes a step back and turns to face the street. The sun is still reasonably high in the sky and he squints in the bright reflection from the white houses as he crosses the road. He holds his head high though when he pushes the carefully addressed envelope into the box standing stoic across from his house. Air fills his lungs and a proud sigh escapes his lips.

He turns and heads for the closest bookshop.


End file.
